


Knight of Man

by Darkbeetlebot



Category: Original Work
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Blood, Dark, Dark Fantasy, Death, Disturbing Themes, Drama, Fantasy, Friendship, Gen, Hope, Hope vs. Despair, Metaphors, Middle Ages, Monsters, Original Fiction, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sad, Sad and Happy, Slow Build, Suffering, Supernatural Elements, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 10:01:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20256295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkbeetlebot/pseuds/Darkbeetlebot
Summary: "...The color of blood that stains the memories of those who shed it is irrelevant compared the act itself..." Legends tell of an anonymous order of knights who wandered the scarred and horrid world, ridding of its ills as their duty to preserve the essence of humanity.Legends tell that the knights had all vanished, taking the hope of the bright world with them. Now, only the ashes of their great deeds remain to smolder the raging fires that seek to bring ruin to everything.Among the fires stands one woman on her humble quest to make the world a better place, one small deed at a time. The Gray Lady. The Mountain. The Knightess. The last Knight of Man in existence.





	Knight of Man

# Part 1

“Raining again?” she whispers to herself, softly, as if her voice could quell nature and bring forth greater torrents. She sits on the back of her steed, traversing the road untraveled by all but the scum of the earth. A woman towering like a mountain, garbed in earthy cloth and steel plates worn from their previous owners. The shield on her arm much the same, has been rusted so much that its original visage is unknown to all who inspect it; the mark of a nameless warrior. To her side, a sword just like any other that remains in steely condition despite its avid use in past days; its blade emits a faint blue sheen even in the darkening light of the overcast skies. On her back, a bow and quiver of unremarkable description that are merely fit for hunting. And the steed, brown and mottled with grey, but standing strong enough to hoist her entire weight and continue on, steadfast.

She looks into the sky, allowing the drops of rain coming sparsely to run down her sunken and dimpled cheeks, to wet her black hair very slightly in anticipation for the coming storm. As the winds pick up, her hair drags with it and leads her view forwards. Her sullen, greyed eyes reflect the drab world ahead of her which comprises itself of nothing more than the far-stretching fields of mud and rock, plants that lay dying of the poisonous ground that infects the land clearly. She looks down, face souring at the thought, her feet kicking and beckoning the steed further. “Adder.” she calls its name, and it kicks up moistening dust behind it.

The rain begins to settle more deeply, drenching the woman and her horse thoroughly before they reach the apex of the hill ahead. “Yes...” she says, staring into the distance at a hamlet of merely a few dozen houses “‘...a’ford and the head of the mound, Analieth awaits thine eye.’ Adder, we arrive, go forth!”

The steed picks up once more, barreling down the hill at top speed and blazing through the rain so hard that the plinks of the water pelting her armor go unnoticed before the pounding of the hooves. She would arrive just a minute later at the gates of this small village, name clearly plastered on the front gate but worn away by the weather. The two measly guards in nothing but tunics and helmets with paltry sticks for weapons and hide-covered boards for shields stop her in her tracks.

“Stop there! Down from the’re horse!” one yells, pointing to her accusatively.

“Slow!” the other adds as two more on the gate towers point their longbows towards her.

She looks at all four of them in succession, nodding along and dismounting, as much trouble as it is. She stands and waits to be approached by the former, who immediately interrogates her, “Name first, business second. No funny business!”

She takes her sweet time staring at him, looking his entire body down and drowning her sight in the features of his expression. He looks tired, his eyes sagging and begging to be closed for the day, or perhaps forevermore. Wrinkled skin but a young body and energy, scars born from stress and not age. His tone not of true anger, but merely aggression. The nature of the world is not a healthy one in this land, and his ragged hands wrapped in cloth make it plain that he has faced hardship for it. This was no soldier, but a farmer. His skin is sickly and pale, not like a healthy man’s. His eyes look fierce, but the sweat beading under his helmet betrays his fear. The rain could not reach there, so what else could it be? She stands so far above him that it feels like a lion looking down on a snake, rattling its tail.

He reaches out for her in agitation, but she reaches out with her own arm, carefully, and their hands meet. She does not push back, but merely smiles and speaks as softly as she had to herself, “You may call me as you like, for I am called nothing. I am a Knight of Man. Is there anything I can help you with?” She speaks with such careful and piercing tact that each word renders him equally speechless, caught off-guard.

She clasps both hands around his one and slowly turns it over, feeling his palm, revealing the dark and mangled skin beneath. He quickly pulls away from her but does not have the heart to ready his spear. She speaks again, “Your hands...were they sullied by the toxic dirt? Burnt in the fires? Frozen by the autumn rain? Tainted by some monster’s action?”

He is taken aback, holding his weapons closely, defensively. His partner comes to his aid with worry, “Andar, what’s the matter!? Who is this?”

“A...Knight of Man...?” he slowly answers. The other looks at the warmly smiling but soaking wet and imposing woman staring at them.

“Unpossible...never has there been one in...” he says, neglecting to finish before she approaches the two.

“May I...?” she begins to ask as she closes in with a hand outstretched.

The second guard points at her and steps back, “Stop!”

She stops mid-step, then lowers her hand and takes one back. He continues, stammering as he starts to run off into the village, “You wait right there!” He sprints off so hard that he trips just a few feet into the gate, right into the mud. She flinches and reaches out, but restrains herself at the last moment and simply stands there in the pouring rain while he disappears. Uncaring for the weather, perhaps even enjoying the feeling if not for the grimace she makes when sticking her tongue out to taste it. Not like the flavorlessness of pure water, but the bitter sourness of acid.

In a moment’s rest, the first man comes to her again, interrupting her quiet pondering of the rain with a question wrapped in hope, “Are you really one?”

“Yes...” she quietly responds, a relieved smile befalling her face. She waits for a further dialogue to no avail and decides to speak, herself, “My son, what ails you?”

Tears nearly fall from his eyes at that very instant, hearing those familiar yet alien words, the telltale of the knights who had abandoned this wilting land long ago. He pleads to her as he unwraps his hands, “Knight, you must help. The beasts of night give us nightmares! They rip my hands asunder, and the tainted dirt poisons its wounds! If they rot, I... I...” He comes closer, dropping his arms and trying to show her the flesh behind the cloth.

“I understand,” she reassures him “my body too is rattled, but I will take your fate and give you mine.”

As she kneels before him, he speaks, “Then you...will help me? A mere soldier? I have little to give but my pay...”

“That is not necessary.” she rebukes “Of course I will help. Even if they do not let me in, it is my duty. Even if it would make this small land just a spring better, I will.” Though her words are filled with a robotic monotone, the gentle expression she gives him is one of dear honesty. She rises up and places a hand on his shoulder, “You are nothing more or less than human, after all is said and done. With this, say that we are equals.”

Not understanding the ritual, he takes it literally and places a hand on her shoulder as well, “Y-Yes! We are equals!”

She giggles, letting a cute side of her normally weathered face show. She says nothing more, simply looking forward at the people who would soon approach them. Andar steps back and picks his weapons up, assuming the position so as to not look weak in front of the others. At least four other soldiers show up and approach the woman, telling her to follow them while the one which stood beside Andar houses her horse in their stables. She gladly agrees and is escorted by the remaining three.

# ⁂

  


# Part 2

She is not toured around the meager village, which is mostly a good thing considering the depressing state it is in. Farms have been reduced to wilted fields and in their place sprout raised gardens around every home that attempt but mostly fail to cultivate away from the toxic ground. Instead, the foliage is still slowly killed by the tainted rain that is their only water to tend with. The houses that are built on short stilts are all just weeks away from collapse, with the windows being pitch black from the lack of any lighting available to the people. Far more than should be, seem to live in the same homes together, many even sick from the constant exposure to the land’s poisoned food. The cattle too is famished and sick, with bodies littering the visible outskirts and being visibly torn apart by the local scavengers. Black birds swarm the skies above, their echoing crows reminding everyone below of their inevitable fate.

And soon, the dark world is shed away again as the soldiers lead the knight into the Reeve’s hall. It is less of a hall and more of a small collection of rooms in one building, the central one being only occupied by a large dining table and an unimpressive throne. None of it interests her aside from the man sitting in it who she is led to. He looks like a crumbling old man, thin but not as far as the others in his village. Dressed in a fur cloak no more fanciful than a hunter’s most prized garb, a serious but sullen expression permanently on his face, and seeming to always hold a longsword in poor condition. Like everyone else here, he is utterly drab.

Yet, the soldiers all bow before him as they present the knight. He slowly rises from his seat and stands to attention while one of the soldiers grabs at her arm and quietly nags her, “Bow, you disrespectful drivel!”

She takes her hand from him and stands on her own, still towering over all. She holds her hand out in a motionless wave, then places it in a clenched fist just under her sternum. The Reeve observes her and repeats the motion, then dismisses his soldiers, “You have all forgotten how to address these people. Leave at once.”

They all apologize profusely to the two, scampering about the room and trying to leave as quickly as possible. Soon, the two are entirely alone. The Reeve begins their conversation with a friendly chuckle, “Haha...has it really been so long that they forgot? I may have been young, but I know the salute of a Knight of Man to this day.”

He expects a response, but she says nothing. She simply stares at him with an expectant and flat expression.

He continues within the next minute, “Like always, of few words. Knight, do you know how long it has been since one of you has wandered into our midst?”

Again, she says nothing. He picks up more quickly, “I forgot the last time. I was but a youngling then, hardly even an adolescent.”

He expects her to follow up, but she instead hurries him along, “There are people here in need. I’m sure that every second is another lost chance for somebody to live healthily and happily.”

He stops and sighs, “You are correct. And as it happens, I have plenty of opportunities for you to show your valor. After all...”

They both speak at the same time, “Even if would help in the smallest bit.” She had clearly led the statement, but he followed easily.

He continues “Yes. I don’t know if you came across them, but there is a gang of highwaymen that have been making our faithful merchants and couriers have a hard life. We rarely see a profit from trading with them running about, so would you please do something about them?”

She kneels and accepts, “I will do as I can.” she then rises up and approaches him, placing a hand on his shoulder, “With this, say we are equals.”

He places his hand on hers, and they nod to each other. Letting go, he gives her the details he has, “There are at least five of them, as the merchants say. One of them is a girl, the rest are boys. All young, about your age in reality. Though, I doubt they could match your...stature.” He looks her up and down, rubbing a finger on his chin while estimating her height.

She perks up at the detail of their gender composition, “Could it be?” she whispers to herself.

He hums, “Hm? What was that, lady knight?”

She shakes her head to him, “Nothing of note. I hope that they will choose the less bloody path.”

“Yes, what do they say?” he agrees and asks, more genuinely than rhetorically.

She responds fondly, “My sword is not an instrument of death, but an instrument of liberty.” He follows in halfway through and gives her a satisfied groan. She prepares to turn and leave, but stops upon remembering, “One other problem...”

“Anything.” he says.

“There is a man in your ranks called Andar. His hands are poisoned ribbons, and he will lose them if not treated. I will gather the means to purify his body, so please let him rest. Let his and the hands of those like his be soaked in Wailflower Water until I return.”

He seems confused by the request, “Wailflower? I’m afraid I am no apothecary. We have none to rely upon, either.”

She sighs, “They are small, yellow and white flowers that grow in groups of three at the top of hills, in the spring. There are plenty around here. Have somebody pick them and simply lay the petals in warm water for an hour.”

While she turns and leaves, he replies, “Ah, of course. I trust your suggestion, lady knight! Do not disappoint us!”

And so she leaves without another word. As soon as she comes out, the two soldiers guarding the entrance to the hall grab her attention, “Knight! ‘Fore you go further...”

“Time is a matter.” she informs them, a stern look on her face.

“Yes, yes!” the one speaking to her nervously agrees “I’ll cut to the meat! You’re allowed to come and go, wander around, whatever you like. The horse be next the stables, right near the gate.”

She nods, closing her eyes and patting him on the shoulder. She leaves in silence and goes directly for the stables, looking so downtrodden that the onlookers from inside their homes look at her in some mix of fear and pity. Ignoring all, she mounts her steed and leaves with no more than an idle wave. Andar and his partner can both feel the doomed atmosphere around her as she passes by them and exits the village, her horse immediately kicking up and galloping into the distance. They could swear they heard the sound of a piano accompanying her, but that would just be illusion.

# ⁂

# Part 3

Through the rain, she marches. Even as it weighs her down, makes her entire body begin shivering, she keeps going stoically. Even if it would stop half an hour later, she kept going as if it had never existed at all. The sky that had darkened into a goldenrod mixed with blues soon turns into a desaturated blue, almost clear. The sun reveals itself in time, and with it the time of later midday. It would set within a few hours: just enough time by her estimate.

And they arrive. On the side of the road ahead, she spots the wreckage of an overturned cart. Horse missing, no bodies. No blood had been shed, just a sacking. This was where they had last hit, and with any luck they would most likely strike her if she got close. She dismounts the horse, taking a stake from the pack on its side and pegging its reigns into the ground with it. She sighs and approaches the cart, careful not to come close enough that they would attack.

“Citia!” she screams at the top of her lungs, which is evidently not too loud. The tall and brown grass on the side of the road rustles. Yet, she does not draw her sword. Soon, a small figure emerges from behind the wrecked cart that has long since had its belongings stolen. A short person dressed in a cloak of muted earth tones that would blend in perfectly with just about anything around them. The only reason she notices them come out is that they flip open the outfit’s hood. It’s a girl who yells back, “Y’know me name!? Is it you, Alley!?”

The knight says nothing in response. Citia draws closer, realizing once just a few meters away, “It is! Boys, come out!” she gladly announces to nobody in particular. Suddenly, four young men come out of the bushes. All of them are wielding bows that had been at the ready until she made them yield. The girl herself must be at least a foot shorter than lady knight, blonde instead of black-haired, a much softer and cuter face to her name. The boys all gather up around her, and they approach the knight while Citia speaks, “Alley, t’asn’t even been a day! What you comin’ back for so soon?” She pats the knight on the arm a few times, in a friendly manner.

Meanwhile, Alley is unthrilled. She keeps her face stern and bleak while she speaks softly, so to ask kindly, “Citia, this needs to stop. You’re hurting people.”

Citia seems offended. She steps back and looks at the knight strangely, “What? Y’mean this?” She points at the carriage they had sacked earlier and makes her point, “Who do we hurt? The swindlers come only to drain our pockets! You know what I think, I know what you said in the old days, they be greedy and evil!” She throws her hands around in agitation, unclear to their point.

“I know,” Alley responds “but you need to listen. We were wrong. Do you have any idea how much the people of the village ahead rely on the taxes of the merchants? They need it, they will all die without it.”

“It’s not like they take the full purse, anyways!” Citia argues. “The swindlers will just dodge the tax and keep everything they made, get rich off of it!” she’s begun yelling awfully loud now. “Alley, you know how it is. Where one man’s life is good, another must suffer: equality! Isn’t that the line you kept spouting!?”

She breaks faith and yells back, “Equality of people, Citia! There is no Karma, no system in place where suffering and peace must be equal at all times. I do not speak of a systematic equality, but of individuals. How many times have we been over this?” Citia has seemed to flinch at the harsh sound of her yelling. Alley quickly apologizes, “I’m... I’m sorry. You know that I am a Knight of Man, now. With all of the cause that entails, and all of the devotion required. Please just stop, I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if I have to.” her voice has dropped to a whisper, and she looks down at the ground without the heart to stare this girl in the eyes.

“And what if I do?” Citia becomes agitated again, but this time the inflection in her tone becomes a vague falsetto. “What if I do? This is how we live. You know that, you grew up with that! You were like a sister to me, how could you not realize that this is what we have!? ‘T’isn’t like we kill!”

“I know.” she responds simply. “I know, but if you don’t, many more lives will be in danger. They are dying within the poisonous earth and becoming too ill to even hold tools properly. They bleed and die for this, it is their life’s work; you have no right to take it from them. I know what you think of them, but you are wrong. Even if you were right and it did not hurt them as much as possible, they will all perish under this land’s infertility before long. You will have nothing to sack, nothing to steal from the roads. You will starve as well.”

She takes a step forward and raises her empty hand, fist clenched and brows furrowed in a difficult, intimidating expression, “This is for your own good. I am not going to stand by and let your poor decision and wasted potential lead to the deaths of a hundred men, women, and children; and yourself! I will not let you become the polluted rain that kills us as we live!”

Citia backs up and takes out two brass knuckles, wearing them and putting her fists up with a fierce look in her eye, “Oh, you want to fight about it!? Come on, I’ll beat you this time! If I can’t convince you with words, you’ll listen to fists! I know you, Alley!”

Yet as she goes in for a right hook, the knight raises up her shield and slams it right across her fist, parrying the blow and making the girl scream out, “You fick!” She throws another, this time slamming into the knight’s stomach to no apparent effect besides a slight flinch. She simply stands there and looks disappointed.

From the edge of Citia’s eyes, the knight can see tears starting to form as she angrily backs up and starts to run forth with another. Alley grimaces painfully, slowly grazing her right hand over to her sword’s handle and sliding it out hesitantly. The moment it begins to come out, Citia gasps and stops in place, throwing her hands up at the revelation that this had just become serious.

“Wait...” she pleads “Wait just a second, don’t do this. Nobody has to get hurt, okay? I was just playing around, like old times! Remember?”

Alley points the end of the sword at her, hand shaking very slightly, “I did not want to do this, but you change your mind so quickly when put at the end of a blade. How can you say that after condemning those poor souls to a life worse than what you had? Do they not hurt? Do they not bleed and sweat for the good of each other? You are not just stealing their money or belongings, but soon their lives. The land will take them, as it will take you and I. Are you doing this because you wish to put them out of their misery? You might as well just execute the whole lot.”

The boys all start to gather around Citia and act as a human shield while she continues to plead, “Alley, come on! This isn’t fair!”

She shakes her head and speaks robotically, detaching herself, “You leave me no other choice. This will end, one way or the other. Come to me before I have to make this decision.” She takes one heavy step forward.

Citia retreats another few paces and yells back, “But what are I supposed to do!? Just be a sacrifice for the greater good!?”

Alley takes another step forward, “As I did. I do not beg you to sacrifice yourself, or to ruin yourself, or suffer. I do not wish that upon anyone.” She points her sword back down to the ground and begins walking slowly forwards while the young men shielding Citia draw their bows.

She stops right at the tips of their arrows, looking down at them with pity. “It’s such a shame that it had to turn out like this.” she says. “Citia, you are such a wonderful artist. Why did you have to throw that away? You could leave like I do and find a better life. I just want everyone to be happy, but you are making that so difficult.”

Citia comes closer, just behind the men to speak clearly, “My family’s here. I’m happy with them, but I guess you wouldn’t know that.” she states firmly. The knight makes a horribly painful, grim face. One of the men yells at Alley to stay clear, or they’ll fire.

“You will not harm me.” she immediately calls their bluff. Yet, she steps back one pace and responds to Citia, “Take them with you.”

“What, take the whole damn village!? No city could accept us!” she yells back, outraged by the suggestion.

Alley closes her eyes, “I cannot leave until this problem is dealt with. Even if it means I have to beat the sense into you, I will not leave. Even if it means I have to endure anything you throw at me, I will not leave.”

With the grip around her sword tightening, she raises her shield and firmly roots herself into the ground. Citia shakes her head in disbelief, “God, no... you can’t be serious.”

Then she takes one quick step forward and swipes her sword across the faces of the young men without a moment’s hesitation. Before they know what happened, their bows are splintered and sundered to the ground, yet they stand unharmed. The only one she failed to disarm nervously fires at her, hitting her in the side and sticking the arrow somewhat deep, just enough for a light wound. The knight barely flinches from the pain and merely rips the arrow right back out, tossing it to the ground before advancing and sundering his bow as well. They all pull out knives and start to back away, some even halfway dedicated to fleeing altogether.

Citia is shocked, so much that she can’t move. “Don’t...please...!” she starts to beg. Alley shakes her head slowly.

As soon as the knight breaks into a sprint towards them, everyone drops their weapons and runs in the opposite direction. However, Citia is too slow to start and only makes it a few steps before the knight comes right up from behind and smacks her on the side of the head with the sword’s flat. The strike is good enough to put her off-balance, only to be hit a second later with the handle of the same sword. She gets knocked over and starts to groan in pain while her nose bleeds slightly.

Before she can get up, the knight has sheathed her sword and picks the girl up by the root of her hair. Citia tries fighting back, but is soon completely grappled and unable to escape the knight’s far greater strength. She can hear the knight whisper, “Did you really think I was going to kill you?”

But she soon realizes that it isn’t a grapple. Alley turns her around wraps both arms around her, giving her a deep and tight hug. Her skin and clothing are rough, cold, and wet. It feels like being embraced by a corpse, and yet there is some warmth coming from it. Coming so close that even the minuscule body heat she has left can be felt in its entirety.

“I’m sorry.” she says, her face scrunching up and whole body beginning to shiver. “I’m sorry... Please, run. Run far away, as fast as you can. I never want to see you like this again.”

“Alley...” Citia begins to tear up, her voice cracking “I can’t...!”

“My dear...” she interrupts “my friend, my sister; I love you so very much. Please be the one to never forget my name.” She lifts her face away and stares down at Citia.

“Alley...” she continues to whisper while looking back up.

She looks down more, staring and not letting go.

“Al...Alessandra.” She says.

Finally, the knight’s grip loosens. As soon as Citia falls from her, she backs away. The girl starts to walk slowly away, soon breaking into a run, repeating the name over and over again under her breath. Each of the young men follow, unable to concoct any other plan of action.

Wordlessly, melancholy, the knight returns to her steed and lifts the stake from the ground, mounting it and letting it slowly trot in the opposite direction, back towards the village.

# ⁂

# Part 4

By the time she has arrived in the village of Analieth again, the golden-black sun above has turned orange as it sets in the sky to her right. The left side of the sky has become as dark as the night, with the three moons becoming visible and soon to be lighting up the black ground with their fair incandescence. She heads inside, stables the horse, and makes a straight line for the Reeve’s hall. Once inside, she sees him still sitting in his chair and weakly waving at her. She holds her fist over her chest for a second and approaches.

“I don’t believe they will hinder you any longer.” she proclaims, still sounding tense. The Reeve nods along, waving off one of his servants who rushes into another part of the building. The knight continues, “Next, I believe that the beasts of night are becoming an issue, or so the one called Andar has told me.”

“The one you wanted to give treatment?” the Reeve asks for clarification.

“Yes. Have you the Wailflowers?”

He speaks tiredly, “I believe we do. You may find him in the sickhouse. However, I implore that you stay for your reward.”

She waves at him side-to-side while shaking her head, “No need for that. I shall head out now and see what will be done of these ‘beasts’.” She quickly begins to leave. The Reeve closes his eyes and sighs heavily, allowing her to walk out.

She finds herself wandering the muddy town for another several minutes, trying to find the sickhouse but coming to terms with the fact that all the buildings here look the same. The only reason she becomes able to find it is through the rustic white water droplet on a sign above a larger-than-average building near the Reeve's Hall. Entering, the pungent odor of death and toxic waste hit her like a collapsing brick wall. It wouldn't be the first time with such a stench in her company, but this was far worse than the body burnings and sickhouse back at her own hometown.

Braving the smell, she puts on a false smile and slowly waltzes through the wide open single room, past the few nurses tending to numerous ill. There are dying people lined up in bedrolls on the wooden floor, most covered in purple blisters that give away the necrosis which quickly eats away at their bodies. Many are amputees, and some look like they've already passed or are at least comatose. Mosquitoes and flies swarm around the room, the scented and sticky bug-catching paper being completely ignored by them. Water drips down from the roof every second, leaking in and making the damp air even more humid. If they were in any hotter a climate, it would be impossible to breathe. The Knight finds herself gasping for breath more than she would like to while hurriedly searching for Andar. She finds nothing when going towards the end of the hall, but finds him next to the entrance and sitting at a table with his hand in a bowl of water when she turns around again.

She approaches and speaks, but not before having a violent coughing fit out of sheer disgust. “Andar...” she whispers, peeking over to spy the bowl “...I see they at least know how to prepare it. How is your hand? Has the infection spread?”

“No.” he answers “But ther're people much worse off than meself; why aren't you helping them?”

She shakes her head and closes her eyes, “Small steps, my son; small steps. You must not try to save the world until you may save one life. I cannot cure all of these people, but I can stop the healthy from becoming like them.”

Andar looks down at his hand, frowning. She can tell his expression: One of a compassionate man who would humbly sacrifice himself for the sakes of others. Noble, yet too cowardly to speak up or do much about it. A wisher, a dreamer, all told from that sullen and thoughtful stare that he gives his wound.

“Do not be frustrated,” she tells him “this is not your fault, or your responsibility. No matter the circumstance, stay focused ahead. I will return in the deep night and deliver your own cure, so— ”

“My son.” he interrupts. She stops and crouches down slightly to listen. “My son is one of these people. He fell ill months ago, but never told us. If he dies, his sister willn't be herself anymore.”

She sighs, repeating what she told him, “Small steps. Before this, I must wait. The curatives are more easily found at night, when I will be hunting these beasts that trouble you. I must know: what of them?”

He gives in to her insistence and slowly but eventually speaks, “The animal attacking us is this horrifying thing, like a wolf but more vicious. Mangy, wiry, and silver unlike the black wolves that we usually see. They never got this close before, but now because of that big one, they gone and maimed me hand like this. I was so stupid that I tried to follow them and kill the damn thing, but it was too dark. Even with those glowing flowers, I couldn't see a foot in front of me own face. The most I got was to the old mangled tree...”

Listening intently, she catches that bit about the tree and stops him, “Tree? A landmark is helpful. Where is it?”

“Oh, the mangled tree.” he says, getting slightly excited “The one to the right of the gate when you walk out. It's a little far off, but that's where I last saw 'em. It's the only one in that field nearby, and pretty big, too. The birds like to get all over it!”

She mentally takes notes, “Moonblossom in the field, next to a mangled tree covered in birds, huge silver wolf and a pack of black wolves. What exactly did the large wolf look like? Was it standing on both legs? Large teeth? Eyes?”

He panics slightly, unable to answer her for a few seconds, “Ah, well... I think it was about as big as I am, but it was on all fours. Face looked more like a dog's than a wolf's, was big and bulgy with crooked teeth. Eyes looked like they could pop at any second, and they were a little cloudy. It might've been blind! It also had these huge claws and legs, like really muscular.”

That last bit caught her off guard, “Large, muscular legs? That sounds like...a Mogar.”

“Mogar?” he asks “What's that?”

“Horrible creatures.” she briefly explains. After looking around a bit, she whispers to him, “Dog-like beasts who are men cursed with necromanticism. They're like werewolves, but far worse. They keep their human intelligence, but lose the consciousness and become feral. Like the one who cursed them, they too can raise the fallen. Unlike them, it can only be done by consuming the flesh or blood. The fallen become thralls of the Mogar, and they will never fall until the Mogar does.”

Andar stares at her with his eyes wide in a look of shock and abject horror at the thought of such a powerful beast. “That...thing is a person!?” he nearly yells.

She covers his mouth and answers, “Yes, but be quiet about it. The less brave and hearty will panic if they hear of such a beast stalking them. I dare say that if it isn't put down, this whole town will be taken over and made to serve the Mogar.”

He takes a minute to calm down, “Well, okay. You know an awful lot about this thing.”

She smiles, “I bought the third volume of _'The Mythic Bestiary' _back at home. It happened to have a section on Mogar. They're a bit of a problem in the swamps, and it is not surprising to see them out here, either.”

“But how are you going to kill that thing?” he interjects “It snapped my weapon in half! Surely it could tear through your armor in seconds!”

She closes her eyes and smiles at him confidently, “They may be strong, but they are no harder to kill than any person. One missile in the right place, and they slump to the ground. Even if this were too much to handle, it is always possible to seek the Mogar as a human and strike while it is weak. Regardless, the dead Mogar will always turn into its original form.”

“And what about the darkness?” he quandaries.

“What were the moons like on that night?” she asks back.

He ponders for a moment, having a hard time remembering. “They were dark, I believe.”

She nods, “And yet, tonight will have the moons waxing. They may yet be faint, but their light will illuminate even the blackened ground. I will see, and thus I cannot fail; I promise that.”

He stares at her, obviously troubled by her self-sacrificial attitude but unaware enough to not realize the irony in that feeling. He nods at her and thanks her with a worrisome expression, “Thank you, Lady Knight. Even if you don't make it out alive, I'll always remember this.”

The lady knight rises and reassures him with a nod, expecting that he understands its meaning. She turns to leave with the ominous words, “I must first speak with the Reeve again before heading the hunt. If I were you, I would make preparations to evacuate.” She doesn't look back.

Arriving back at the Reeve's hall in short order, she commands his attention from the other end of the room with a hail, “I return, Reeve! I will be heading the hunt soon, but we must speak first.”

The Reeve turns in surprise that she had come back so suddenly. While scratching his cheek, he asks, “What have we to discuss? I became busy, so we must make haste.”

She skips right to the point, “This town is in worse shape than mine was, and it was a den for thieves and murderers. There are people in the sick house spreading disease to their neighbors, and sanitation is unheard-of! What are you doing to even keep them alive? What are you doing at all?”

He stops and sighs, “Have you looked around? These people are already dead, not dying. I have done all in my power to bring back this land from the brink, yet it remains a poisonous wasteland. What would we do? Leave? This land is hostile enough as it is.”

She interrupts him, eyes narrowing and slightly sickened by his words, “I have seen worse. So much worse; have you the dead being wheelbarrowed into mass graves where grave robbers loot their corpses before it is all burned?”

He attempts to understand where she’s going with this, “What? I am sorry, but looking on the bright side doesn’t help.”

She shakes her head, “I came from a dark place such as that. I know that this place cannot be saved, I know that the damage is too deep to fix. When I sat out on my journey, I was the only one to come because the rest held onto their sentiments. They didn’t care for the future, for their own fates. They clung to the darkness for comfort; it was the only thing they knew. The only thing they still know. I left because I knew that if I did, I would stumble upon better days. I moved forward; I did not hold back.”

She waits for a response, and he bites, “Knight, your order never ceases to amuse me. How quickly you can become heated by your beliefs is admirable, and I cannot say I am even a match for your resolve. You have proven that with only your words so far. Should I interpret them as you saying that we should leave everything behind?”

“Yes.” she immediately answers “That would be best for everybody. It has been said twice, and I will not repeat it again.”

“And how do you propose it be done?” he asks curiously, almost pretentiously as if he believed she had not thought it through.

She gives him the short summary, “Make great preparation in advance, save those who can help themselves, and let the few on the brink be the last vestments of hope for those who would die regardless. Make haste with the survivors and trek the long journey to a land less foul.”

He smiles pleasantly, even smugly, “That sounds terribly cold of you to leave the sick and dying here. Isn't it?”

She agrees, shockingly, “It is, but would you rather more of these families be broken with illness by staying in wait? Would you rather take them and allow contagion to spread? This is not the time to hesitate. The suffering of the many who may yet live outweighs the suffering of the few who will not. This is for the future, not the present.”

The two stare at each other intensely while the Reeve looms near her, attempting to use his proximity and authority to intimidate her. She doesn't falter for a single moment; stands proudly and silently with her opinion. He eventually gives up and turns away, “I will consider your opinion. But of this hunting business: what is it you hunt, exactly?”

She breathes deeply, perhaps impatiently, “From the word of your gate guard, I believe it is a Mogar. Nasty beasts, they are.”

He replies slowly, starting with a heavy sigh, “I should have known... Lady Knight, I have one gift for you in this case. A weapon that will assist you.”

She takes a few steps towards him and waits while he retreats to another room and comes back a minute later with some sort of glass vial. A dipping vial, just wide enough to dip the tip of an arrow into. “This...” he explains “...is a vial of a very particular venom fit for hunting Mogar. I have long feared that we were plagued by one, so I had prepared it in advance. Nobody has been brave enough to face it so far.”

She nods confidently, taking the vial and strapping it onto her belt via two small strings attached to its seal and bottom. “Resourceful that you should have such a thing.” she comments, indirectly complimenting his foresight.

“I will see you out, now.” he says, waving her off.

She had meant to say more, but decides to hold off for until their next dialogue. She exits the hall and makes the quick trip to the entrance of the town with her horse in tow. There, she would sit tightly on its saddle and rest until nightfall.

# ⁂

# Final Part

Hours of waiting later, the knight awakens by the tap of a guard reminding her not to sleep the entire night away. They also inform her that at her word, a large portion of the town seems to have joined her cause to leave the land in search of a better future. She gladly acknowledges him and tells him to let the people rest, that they would figure out the way forward tomorrow.

Finally, after becoming solitary and at the right time to hunt the beast, she gestures the horse forward. It slowly trots along, off the beaten path immediately and into the soggy brush where darkness overtakes everything in sight. Of course, the light of the triad moons illuminates the ground enough to see as they all wane in near unison. As she mounts over the hill to the side of the town, the field laid before her is a massive sea of teal grass and black soil, the latter sullied by poison and the former merely the color of the moonlight. Few specks appear that glow a bright blue color and stand out from the ground beneath like glowing beacons. While keeping a lookout, she approaches each of these luminescent flowers and picks them gently, placing each into her saddle-bag. Howls echo in the distance every so often to remind her of the mission, and ever-increasing both her anxiety and determination. With each one, she looks up and at the horizon with a squint and a furrow of her brows. Then, a look into the night sky where clusters of stardust paint her vision in mixtures of blue, white, and red.

She breathes in, absorbing the atmosphere. For all of its toxicity and death, for all the bleak and ugly colors, it still makes her vaguely nostalgic. Or is that the right word? Nostalgic, not as herself, but as her future self. Knowing that one day she would leave this land and forget its stench, only to return with its memories and be sent to tears by the revelation of her roots. A deep but brief introspection follows as she imagines the unseeable “what is to come”. Then, like a rude awakening, another howl snaps her back to reality. This time it is not any normal howl, but the screeches of the Mogar.

She repeats verbatim from her book, by memory, “Mogar calls are often mistaken for the mating call of an ogre, but the Mogar's howl is higher in pitch and often less clear.” She mounts her horse and looks for the mangled tree that Aandar described. To the left, atop a hill, a tree with at least 14 branches twisted beyond reason. No leaves, bark blackened with toxins, and covered in sleeping birds. She slowly rides up to it, dismounting and drawing her bow. She crouches and starts sneaking up the hill, arrow drawn, super-attentive to seek the beast's silhouette.

  


She peeks over the hill, looking down at the field to see something quite large walking up towards her. “Silver fur like that of the shining moons, and lustrous enough to reflect their light; the face of a rabid dog, teeth crooked and grotesque like a swine, eyes foggy and bulging like a blind man's, and swollen muscles upon its legs.” she whispers to herself, also repeating from her manual. Every sign she described is present. Indeed, she had found the Mogar.

  


Not to waste time, she quickly ducks down and pulls out the vial, unsealing it and dipping her arrow in. She pulls out another and sticks it in the polluted dirt with a wet slosh, then places the poisoned arrow on the ground and dips the other. She takes it and stands back up, pulling the bow back at the same time and aiming squarely at the beast which spots her and begins advancing with a fast walk. She waits until it draws close enough to discern its features, then lets loose one. It veers directly into the Mogar's upper leg, piercing so deeply that it causes it to trip and fall face-first into the dirt! It screams in pain while its pack of clearly undead wolves come from behind it and quickly close in! She picks up the other arrow now covered in polluted dirt and poison, then aims as hastily as possible and lets loose again at the Mogar. It flies into its chest, embedding in-between the ribs and sticking there like a splinter!

  


Spilling blood across the ground, the Mogar struggles to keep its composure. It wails into the night, gargling and wheezing to elicit some mercy. The knight does not let up, hanging her bow around her horse's neck and drawing her sword and shield. She kicks it until it runs away, then starts sprinting downhill, towards the crippled Mogar! But just as she begins charging, it hoists itself back up and screams at her. She hesitates and backs up, deciding to instead wait for the wolves to come forth. They quickly come from the tall grass and surround her in seconds, but she doesn't let her confidence up. Knowing that defensive play is a bad idea against stalkers, she instead lunges in one direction and turns at the last second, running in the opposite and rushing one of the five wolves! They move in accordance to her first move, but not the second. The one she attacks lunges out for her in self-defense, but only eats the blade of her sword as she slices its mouth clean open.

  


Dark blood spills onto her leggings and sword, then onto the ground as the wolf coughs its life essence up. She turns and quickly slams her sword onto its back, cleaving it in twain just in time for two more to take its place! She points her sword at one and lets it be impaled while holding her shield up at the other. It bites down and tries to take her shield down, but she holds onto it tightly while it clings. She swipes her sword to the side while backing up against the mangled tree, the wolf that had impaled itself sliding off and splattering its blood all over her. She then immediately skewers the eye of the clinging wolf to force it off, only then realizing that her sword has been completely coated red.

  


Two more show up, and the Mogar behind them. It seems to be lingering in the back, unwilling to attack. “Right...” she remembers “...permanent thralls.”

  


With the clinging wolf off, she decides to merely cripple it by slicing one of its legs off. She quickly heads over to the one that had impaled itself and does the same, only to be bitten in the arm by another! The last wolf comes in and gets her leg. Luckily, their teeth aren't quite pointed enough to get through her armor and merely serve as a grapple. She takes the time to properly align her blade with the head of the one on her leg, and then decapitates it with a single motion! Blood soaks her leggings, but she cares little for the discomfort. She then slams the wolf clinging to her sword arm into the tree beside her and follows with the tip of her sword into its throat. Blood squirts and hits her pauldron, then her cheek. She simply stares and drags the blade, tearing its head off instead of cleanly slicing. The jaw falls slack and off of her now bloody arm.

  


She turns around, ready to face the Mogar, and finds that it had just started charging straight for her! Her eyes go wide and teeth clench tightly as she ducks and witnesses its claws cleave through the bark of the tree and leave several gashes so deep that it looks likely to have gone straight through even her metal plates. She dives to the side in time to avoid another swipe, quickly standing up and holding her shield towards it. She swallows her fear at that second and begins beating her shield with her sword, lettings its raptures taunt the Mogar!

  


The taunt works wonders. It gets on all fours and takes only one leap before it's right back in her face, then swipes again! She clenches her shield tightly and moves against the attack, slamming the shield into its claw so hard that it rings like a cymbal and sends shockwaves through both of their arms! The claw goes flying and her shield arm goes numb, but they both continue! It swipes at her with its other arm, and she charges straight forward with her sword pointed up! The Mogar hesitates the moment it realizes that it just missed, then starts to quickly back up at the same rate she charges. She stops in her tracks and lets it backpedal for another moment before it realizes what just happened.

  


She smiles while bringing up her shield again, “Not that lame, are you? I thought as much.”

  


The Mogar screams at her with a shrill voice that physically hurts her ears, but she just shrugs it off as an annoyance. It makes its way towards her slowly, but doesn't attack. It simply starts circling her. They proceed to strafe around each other in a circle for at least half a minute before either one makes a move. By the time the Mogar realizes it needs to act, the poison has already weakened it considerably. It lurches forward slowly, getting just a few meters away before it lunges forward and tries to grab her!

  


She allows it to, but only her shield! Backstepping, she holds it up and lets the beast grab a hold firmly before sliding her arm out of the grip and immediately sprinting under its arm! The Mogar tugs the shield forward and wonders what just happened, but too late. It tosses the shield against the tree and tries to escape, but she has already slid her sword across its hind leg and nearly cut the entire thing off! It collapses onto the ground and limps horribly as it tries to escape. She allows no such thing and mounts its back, standing atop it and gripping tightly to the fur of its nape!

  


Realizing what's about to happen, the Mogar tries to roll onto its side while flailing about and trying to grasp at her! Instead of releasing, she directs the tip of her sword just deep enough into its nape that it doesn't fly out, and then allows it to nearly crush her! Instead of that, it accidentally jams the sword even deeper inside, effectively impaling itself in the neck. Meanwhile, the knight is holding its weight up by lying on her back and pushing up with her feet while the sword's handle props it up slightly. The Mogar tries to scream but can barely manage and merely wheezes as blood pours and spurts onto her. She eventually pushes it so hard that it forces the Mogar onto its belly. It continues to groan painfully, dying of a mixture of blood loss and poisoning. To speed up the process, the knight approaches and grabs the sword, pulling it with all of her might until it slowly but surely slides out of the Mogar's neck. More blood practically explodes in one pump before it finally stops moving. Perhaps not fully dead yet, but too injured to continue living much longer.

  


With the job done, she holsters the bloodstained sword for now and retrieves her shield while waiting for the Mogar's corpse to transform back into whomever it once was. She must have waited by the tree, looking up at the sky for an hour before the process completed. By then, the thralls had already turned into ash and blown away in the light breeze.

  


It was no woman or child thankfully, but a man. She comes closer and inspects the withered and dead body, finding a drab and crumbling old man. She stops in her thoughts' tracks upon seeing his face. It was clear now: The Reeve. She kneels down and sets her shield aside, then reaches upon his face to drag his eyelids down and shut his opened mouth. She drags him up, upon the hill and beneath the tree where she places both of his hands together, above his chest. Straightens his body, then holds his clasped hands with her own. She droops her head and waits there, as if praying or perhaps ruminating.

  


After several minutes, she opens her eyes again and breathes heavily. She takes her sword out again and carves a straight line down his stomach, followed by three intersecting ones. She looks up at the tree, at the black birds waiting upon it and staring at her. She stands and walks several meters back, whistling for her horse. She sits back down with crossed legs, placing her sword along her lap and shield to her side. While waiting, she takes out a simple cloth and spits on it, beginning to clean the blood off of her blade while the horse comes to her at a painful pace. In that time, the birds see fit to descend upon the old man and begin tearing his body apart one small piece at a time.

  


She stops cleaning and looks onwards at the spectacle, simply staring with a solemn and deadpan gaze. Steadily, she sits still and doesn't blink even once. She completely absorbs it as the wind picks up and begins blowing her lengthy hair to the side in a veritable waterfall of black strands. The blood, too, is black, that which the birds pull. She cannot see the gore from afar, but acknowledges it. She begins speaking to her horse, perhaps even to herself.

  


“They would tell me that it's red, you know. But I know that it doesn't matter. The color of blood that stains the memories of those who shed it is irrelevant compared the act itself. I see this blood as black, the color of emptiness. A symbol, that made of ink, the color of meaning itself. The scribes print words in it, the artists paint images of life itself in it. It carries both everything and nothing, so we apply our own ideas to it. Words are not written in ink, and art is not drawn in ink. They are made with blood, that shed to create it. This is our medium. The essence of our very being; our souls, our humanity itself, and what we are. All defined by ourselves, and all written in that which gives us the life we define with it.”

  


She gazes into the sky and up at the stars, “And yet, I look up and see these wonderful colors. If gods exist, do they too paint in blood? Is their blood filled with such wonderful colors?”

  


She closes her eyes for a moment, one built-up tear rolling out as she smiles to herself, “No, that would make them inferior to us, right? Indeed... We must be gods, then. I wonder, with all of the tales of grandeur and benevolence, are we simply revelling in our own nostalgia from times long gone? Maybe we were always like this. What is the matter with that?”

  


She laughs at herself for asking such questions, “Ha! This world is fairly hysterical, is it not? And cruel...so cruel.”

  


Without much else to think on, she stands, making one final wipe of her blade before sheathing it and putting her rag away. She picks up her shield and turns to her horse, where she hugs it by the neck. “Thank you.” she tells it, before looking back at the corpse of the Reeve and repeating it, “And thank you.” Her smile is gone. She mounts her horse and takes her bow back, finally heading back with her jobs done.

  


In the dead of night, she returns, covered in blood. The guards are the only ones to greet her this late, and they do not bring her applause. She dismounts next to them and pronounces, “It is done.”

They clearly believe her and have no reason not to. However, they then comment after an applause, “Er, lady knight...what's wrong with your skin?”

She looks confused, “I beg your pardon?”

“It's...it's grey! Not pale, like a rock!” he exclaims.

She pulls off one of her gloves and observes her hand. Indeed, it is grey as the stone they stand on. She takes no alarm, but instead smiles at it. Almost...proudly. She puts the glove back on and sighs in relief, “It is no trouble. This is our mark. It seems I have finally been chosen.”

She looks up at the sky fondly while the guard simply looks bewildered. “Well, whatever 'tis, I'm glad that monster is gone for good. Looks like ya earned a reward, aye? Let's celebrate!”

She sighs, not wanting to participate but being too charmed and polite to refuse, “I will join you, but only after applying this cure to Aandar. Without it, he will not last.”

They both nod understandingly. Then, before letting her in, he asks, “Oh, it seems like the Reeve's up and disappeared. Haven't happened to see him, have ye?”

She looks down, thinking intently on her response, “He...joined me. In the duel, he came from the darkness and helped slay the beast. Yet, he did not make it.”

He swallows his tongue, only briefly speaking, “...Well then.” He's clearly shaken, but stays stoic. She pats him on the shoulder and heads inside without another word. Once in, she heads right for the sick house and seeks where Aandar was. There he is still, lying his head against the table and hand in the water, asleep. She can't help but gawk a little, finding the mere fact that he's asleep to be cute. She silently takes the flowers she had picked and sits by him, proceeding to grind the petals into flakes before sprinkling them into the water. She goes and searches around the building for various other things, mostly salves, and adds a couple more liquids to the mixture. She stirs it and wraps a cloth around the bowl's top before leaving. “Should do for now...” she whispers.

And of course, she would be greeted by much of the town's men as soon as she entered the Reeve's Hall. Instead of him sitting in the throne ahead, it is his 13-year-old son who wears his father's fur coat which is far too large for him. Everyone seems to be having a bit of a relaxed party while the young man is being introduced to his duties by a number of excited people.

A couple men grab the knight by the shoulder unsolicited and happily thank her with an invitation to sit down and drink with them. “The beer's the only clean thing around here!” they claim. She doesn't believe them and thus only pretends to drink it. Nothing of substance happens besides a lot of them getting up and dancing like a pack of buffoons on a holiday. For them, it's only such an occasion. She can't seem to get into the mood, however. Whether it's just her laid back attitude or the events of that night, she can't celebrate. Just sits at the table and stares into her drink where she sees only her reflection. For hours, even, she does this. Until everyone has already headed back home or fallen asleep on the dirty floor, she's still sitting there. Finally, after a long day, she slides the cup along the table and rests her head upon it to sleep soundly for the night.

The next day, she finds herself directing a whole band of people who have decided to simply pack up and leave. It's over half the town's healthy population; mostly women and children. Many of the husbands have also come together, and Aandar specifically has decided to come despite his hand not yet being fully healed. He has brought his family along despite his son’s sickness, but the knight turns a blind eye.

And still, there are those who wish to stay. Those people unite under the word of the new Reeve, who doesn't take as kindly to the lady knight's suggestion. To him, it was a death sentence. Without many healthy people, there was just a house full of hot corpses and a silent town built on what basically amounts to salted farmland. Using the influence of emotional appeal, he decried her help and labeled all those leaving as cruel, saying he'd never leave behind the dying in their time of need. He cast them all away, believing he may do better. And so, with the knight as their guiding light, their light which breaks those clouded skies, the people of this tiny and soon-forgotten town set out, for better or worse.

And as she rides with them, she looks up at those skies and thinks to herself rhetorically, _“Sunny out today, is it not?”_


End file.
